


The Hot Cold Case

by nieseryjna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Drama, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieseryjna/pseuds/nieseryjna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone recognizes Neal's photo in a paper it starts a turn of strange events, and that is just the tip of the iceberg...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar, just borrowing them for fun
> 
> Timeline: set after Free Fall, some teeny weeny spoilers for later episodes
> 
> Many, many thanks to my fantastic beta - mam711!

The weather was surprisingly inviting for a walk in the park. The last few days had been cold and cloudy with lots of rain, which put New Yorkers in a bad mood. Today was completely different, very sunny and warm; many of the people they met were enjoying the sun, soaking in the warm rays.

The elderly couple was strolling slowly through Central Park. He squeezed her hand delicately, his own way to tell her he loved her without really voicing the words. They sat on the bench, eating lunch, sandwiches and coffee from their favorite deli. She smiled, that secret smile that promised she was up to no good; he had fallen in love with that smile a long time ago. She kissed him, the passion rising slowly then falling as their lips disconnected. This time he smiled.

She got back to her sandwich and looked around - the park was full of people. Families with children, teenagers playing hookey, older people. Playing around in groups, slowly strolling around or running screaming with dogs. Her eyes clouded for a moment with memories. She could see her own children running the path, boys kicking a soccer ball between them, and little Bianca trying to catch up to them. They were ghosts of the times that had passed.

It was twenty years since that awful day that changed everything. She shook her head, and took another look across the path. There on a bench sat a homeless man reading an old newspaper; it was torn and dirty, and on the front page was a photo of a young man, a police photo. She squinted her eyes to take a better look. She gasped in surprise.

"Ed ..." she whispered. "Ed, look." She shook her husband's arm, showing him the paper. "It's Tony!"

 

* * *

Neal sauntered into the office early in the morning, a smile on his face, hat in hand, whistling some happy tune. Being cleared of the diamond heist was a good thing, even if that was over a week ago and from that moment on he'd been on a health insurance fraud case (almost as boring as mortgage cases); he still was happy.

"Hi, Jones. Cruz."

"Neal, you look happy."

"Yes! Had a great weekend," he smiled broadly, sitting on the edge of Cruz's desk and snatching a file from her to browse the pages.

Cruz plucked it from his hand. "That one is not for you."

"Who's with Peter?"

Clinton and Cruz looked at each other and sighed; nothing got by the watchful eye of Neal Caffrey.

"Missing Persons Division."

"Since when do we do missing persons?"

They shrugged. "We don't; they came in a few minutes ago, going directly to Peter," Jones answered.

It almost worked like a charm, every time they talked about Peter he would raise his head from whatever paperwork was keeping his attention and looked to the bullpen to check what was going on. This time he looked over his shoulder for a second, snapping his head back as soon as he registered that Neal was there. He shot him a pointed look and two fingers crooked to call him in.

"Well, that's my cue." Neal shot another charming smile at the agents and went up to Peter's office.

"Neal, close the door." Peter greeted him with a strange look in his eyes. Not exactly like when he did something wrong, but for sure something had disturbed his equilibrium.

"Neal Caffrey, these are Agents Lucero and Kendrick from Missing Persons Division." The agents didn't utter a word, staring at him openly, like they would if they'd seen a ghost. It was something he did not like after his photo had been in the paper. In White Collar Division, everyone knew him already and the looks were limited, but everywhere else he felt like a bug under a microscope.

"Gentlemen," Neal nodded his greeting, "what can we help you with?"

Peter shot him an look telling him to cool it and behave, as if he would do anything else.

"The agents came to us with a missing person case that they believe we can help solve." He took a thick case file, battered and stained, obviously an old one, and opened it, still keeping it close.

Neal stepped closer to look over his shoulder, asking at the same time, "Who's missing?"

"Apparently, you are," Peter answered at the exact moment that his eyes landed on a worn photograph of a 12-year-old boy with dark brown hair and blue eyes set beside his mugshot.

Neal snapped the file from Peter's hand in a swift move, ignoring still-lingering stares.

Beside the first two snapshots there was another photograph - this time the guy in the photo did look more like him, aside from shorter hair and a scar on his chin.

"But that's not me." He pointed at the older guy.

"It's the victim's twin brother," was the answer from one of the agents still in the room.

Neal shook his head. "You've got to be kidding me, I think I would know if I were missing and had a twin brother."

"We wouldn't, Neal; your past is all cloaked in mystery," Peter reminded him casually.


	2. Chapter 2

They moved to a conference room - it was easier and more roomy as Cruz and Jones also joined the party. They were staring at the three photos on the whiteboard with strange smiles.

"So now we know why you were spotted everywhere - this guy looks identical to you," Cruz exclaimed when Neal entered the room with a cup of fresh coffee. He had a headache.

Agent Augusto Lucero was a small round man with Hispanic roots, not really prone to smiling often. He was observing Neal with interest; of course most divisions knew who he was, but meeting him in person was something he hadn't expected. The case was old; he was a probie just out of Quantico when the kid went missing. After six months, everyone had lost faith that he would ever be found; and here he was, meeting someone that might help solve it after twenty years.

Agent Michael Kendrick browsed through Neal's file - the con man was a legend, and at first he had wanted to work White Collar to catch people like him. In the end he got into Missing Persons as he had a knack of reading between the lines of life, helping find those who had gotten lost. He was in his fourth year in the FBI, still young and optimistic - he was also the first one that without hesitation asked to meet with Caffrey. It was a long shot, but if they could close the case it would be a great achievement.

"Okay, let's pull this together," Peter started the meeting. He was curious how this case would end. "Agent Lucero, if you could walk us through." He nodded to the older agent.

"On the 13th of March, 1990, NYPD was informed about the disappearance of Anthony Mayfield, age 12, son of Edgar and Victoria Mayfield. The boy was last seen in Theodore Roosevelt Park at West 81st playing soccer with his twin brother Brian. There were very few leads on that case and no ransom request. Over the next six months, despite a very big campaign in the media, as well as posters everywhere in the city and state, no additional information surfaced. It looked like the kid had sunk into the ground."

"What are the odds that I could be him or that he's already dead and has been for a long time?" Neal asked quietly.

Kendrick looked worriedly at his partner; this case was always on his mind. He did know the odds for every missing child case. The older they got, the higher the probability of the child being dead, and the Mayfield boy fit the category. Only four percent of kidnapping cases were unsolved; this one was by far the oldest in their collection. He stood up and took over.

"In cases of kidnappings there are several factors you have to take into consideration when assessing the threat as well as the odds and possibilities of finding the child. The murder of an abducted child is a rare event, but 76 percent of those are dead within three hours of the abductions." The silence was thick with tension. "Our missing kid was in the fourth category we use to represent risk groups - elementary and middle-school children ages 6 to 14. In this group, the risk of non-familiar kidnapping as well as murder is very high."

It had gone without saying that they had suspected for a long time that the missing child was dead. That didn't stop anyone from looking, though, especially not the child's parents who had always believed Anthony was still alive.

"I take it that the family was on the suspect list?" Cruz was first to recover from slight shock about the missing children statistics. They were FBI agents; they dealt with death often enough, although in White Collar Division it was not as often. But missing children, murdered children, tended to chill everyone to bone.

"Yes. The parents as well as staff were under investigation and thoroughly checked. That took us nowhere - the parents had good alibis, the staff had worked for the family for years, all clear. The last people to see Anthony was the maid that saw him leaving the house and his brother Brian." Lucero took over again.

"Now 20 years later the parents come back to us with the mug-shot photo from the paper claiming that you must be their missing son. They even did some investigation by themselves before coming to us, to ensure they wouldn't waste our time." The last part was somehow ironic. Wasn't the FBI there to help people out? But in some cases, especially with missing persons, parents tended to be desperate and follow every lead they could, sending them all to the police, expecting them to clear their calendars to deal with the situation. It was impossible with the amount of leads and false information that usually followed such a case.

Neal's face fell a little; Peter observed him casually, trying to convince himself that Neal wasn't conning them, that he truly wasn't the missing twin. There was a brief expression of disappointment on the ex-con man's face, which quickly got replaced by one of Neal's shy smiles.

"Well, whatever they found out, for sure it didn't make them happy. Making them think that their lost son got onto the wrong path," he said with as much sarcasm in his voice as he could.

Lucero shot a nasty glare in his direction, telling him he did not appreciate the sarcasm; it wasn't the time nor the place for that. "Get serious, Caffrey," he snapped, starting to rise from his chair. Kendrick's hand stopped him in his seat.

"What the parents found convinced them you could still be their missing son. Anthony was a talented kid - took art and foreign language lessons, had vast interests in history as well as criminology. His book collection had, among others, several volumes on European post-impressionists which were his favorites..."

"That sounds surprisingly like you, Caffrey," Jones summarized teasingly.

"Just because some of his interests were similar to what I do and know now doesn't mean he is me," Neal grunted.

"Why don't you tell us why you aren't him, Neal, before the DNA test comes back?" Peter ran interference; it really didn't matter so much - the test would be the ultimate answer, but he itched to know more about Neal's past.

"First of all the twins are almost two years younger than me." Neal took them by surprise, giving the agents a minute to browse through his file again, all except Peter - Neal looked the agent in the eye, yup, he knew it already. "Second, I'm allergic to penicillin, which neither of the twins is; third  
my first visit to New York was in October, 1990, during which I was questioned by the NYPD on my incredible resemblance to a missing child." Neal had a good memory and glancing at the file once was enough.

"You didn't mention that before!" Lucero shouted angrily; the convict was making fools of them.

"You should have known it already," was the fast response, "but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt as the 'talk' with police was about a different topic, and the question about the missing boy was asked once, if I remember correctly. And, please, it was twenty years ago; it slipped my mind, I was much more concerned about something other than some missing kid."

"Neal?" The tone in Peter's voice was clearly indicating 'spill the beans and stop making excuses'.

"I might have borrowed something from the museum that day," he reluctantly admitted.

"Cut the crap, Neal, it was twenty years ago; the statute of limitations is long gone for that one." Peter was irritated.

"Some gems from the hall of gems and a few books from the research library, nothing really valuable." He tried to smile a calming smile at the agent, and to ignore the disbelieving looks of Lucero and Kendrick. Jones and Cruz just snickered; it was typical Caffrey.

"So you stole gems and books - what for? And you've been what, fourteen, fifteen at the time?" Jones decided to bite on that one.

Neal hesitated; it wasn't like he was ashamed of what he'd done, or wasn't proud of his heists right from the beginning. But telling the FBI about his carefully-guarded past was not something he was ready to do - he liked that they didn't know everything. That they, especially Peter, still had to wonder about his teenage days and what brought him to such a career. He liked being an enigma, a puzzle.

He smiled his 'I'm-conning-you' smile - which Peter was starting to recognize faster and faster each time it showed up. "Why we don't take a coffee break before I bore you to death with stories of my uninteresting childhood?"

Behind his back, Hughes showed Peter a file and pointed his head in the direction of his office. Seemed they had new case, and Peter really hoped it was something other than mortgage or insurance fraud; he needed something to keep Neal interested or the kid would jump on the first opportunity to con him and the rest of the FBI. Like now.

"Okay, let's take a break. Lucero, Kendrick, I think you can go back to Rice and tell her that the lead was no good." Neal stopped just outside the doors, listening to their conversation. "You'll get the results at the same time we will." He moved outside, motioning Caffrey to his office.

"But we can't confirm nor deny that Caffrey is Mayfield yet!" Kendrick was nothing if not stubborn. "And what about the testimony, we don't have that one in our file."

"He was probably conning us, wasn't he, Burke?" Lucero had no problem recognizing the game; he might not have much experience with White Collar, but something in his gut told him that the trail was a wrong one. It was Kendrick that followed up.

"Yeah, he most probably did. You can try to find the testimony without wasting our time," Peter confirmed upon entering his office and closing the door. Neal sat at his usual spot grinning from ear to ear like a cat that ate a canary.

"Peter, did you really have to ruin my fun? Who ordered the DNA test, don't you trust me?" he asked with hurt in his voice, destroying the effect by still keeping the smile on his face.

The look Peter gave him spoke volumes. "Of course I trust you, but not further than I can throw you. You would spin the tale and lie convincingly that you are Anthony, even if you started by claiming you weren't." Neal's smile didn't even flatten. "Of course you would! After you read his name it was tempting, wasn't it?"

"Come on, Peter, you can't blame me for using the occasion! They came with everything in place, it was almost perfect." He stopped for a moment, "well, until you mentioned the DNA test. Who ordered it, again?"

"Rice."

"Who?"

"Kimberly Rice, the lead at Missing Persons Division. She doesn't trust you either."

"Go figure." Neal just rolled his eyes. "So what about that coffee?"

"You go get the coffee, I have to talk to Hughes." Peter just waved him off . "And Neal," he stopped the con man in the open door, "give back whatever you took from the Museum."

"But ..."

"No buts, mister, I know you have it." And he was sure of it, even after 20 years.

"Not really..." Meaning he didn't have it on him, never did.

"Give it back."

"It's outside my radius," he protested, not specifying that not only was the Museum outside his radius, but also the stash where his 'older' things were.

"I don't care, send someone." Clearly he had Mozzie in mind. "Now, go for that coffee."

Neal opened his mouth to protest again; Peter just silenced him with one short word, "Go!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greatest thanks to mam711 for best beta I could imagine!


	3. Chapter 3

When Neal came back with the coffee, Peter was still in Hughes' office, obviously in heated discussion; he wondered if it was about him and the missing-boy case. He could admit, to himself, that his first instinct was to con the FBI into believing that he was Anthony Mayfield - son of Edgar Mayfield, head of Honeycomb Software. He was worth a fortune. It would be fun; they really did have similar interests, and the looks made it so easy. But as much as he liked to yank Peter's chain, this might be a little over the line that could send him back to prison; and he was lucky to have backed out before he knew about the DNA test.

"Caffrey! Let's go!" Peter's voice cut thorough his musings; he was moving quickly towards the elevators.

"Peter, where's the fire? Shouldn't we continue with the Mayfield case? Peter?" He spun on his heel and followed the agent to the elevator.

"Where are we going?" he asked again when Peter started the car and directed it out of the parking lot.

"West 82nd Street, we get a break from mortgage and insurance cases - this time someone found art treasure, at least seems to think so. NYPD called for an art expert to verify if the paintings are originals." Peter obviously wasn't happy for some reason.

"Nice, what paintings are we talking about? Da Vinci, Rembrandt, Haustenberg?" Neal was excited, finally an art case.

They stopped behind a squad car; Peter flashed his badge and they were allowed to enter the closed perimeter.

"FBI, I'm Agent Peter Burke. Who's in charge here?"

The uniformed officer pointed them in the direction of an unmarked police car in the middle of the commotion. "Detective Walczak, the one in the brown coat."

"Detective Walczak?" Peter stood behind the person and as soon as they spun around he hid his surprise; it was a woman. Dark brown hair was cut short, giving her more of a male look from behind, but the face itself was delicate, with light green eyes and full red lips. She didn't smile at seeing them, just raised a brow in question.

"Agent Peter Burke, FBI. This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey." He again showed his badge. "You called for an expert on the paintings that were found?"

"Yes, come with me." The no-nonsense attitude wasn't something Peter encountered often in NYPD officers, especially someone as young as this one. He shot a look at Neal, shuddered, and followed the detective.

She started talking as soon as he joined her at her side. "We were called on a B the suspect entered via this hatch and tunnel from Prohibition days, rummaged through stuff there and in the cellar. The owner spooked him when he got home."

"Those tunnels have gotten lots of use lately," was Neal's amused comment.

"The tunnel and cellar didn't have a blocked connection?" Peter asked, while they moved down the steps and into the bricked entrance.

"There were steel doors; the owner claims he didn't know about them and the connector. Which seems to be true, he just inherited it from his uncle and saw the place for the first time in his life around two months ago." She stopped by a pile of canvases stacked in one corner. They must have been hidden behind some boxes as the dust was spread around unevenly, with big clean spaces nearby.

"So whose paintings are we talking about here? I still didn't get that answer." Neal's hands itched to get on the pile. He looked around for a police tech box and gloves, but seeing none he lifted a pair from the detective's pocket. He put them on expertly and carefully moved the first painting.

"That's what you're here for." Walczak didn't even noticed that the gloves were hers.

Neal looked closely at the painting, eyes scanning each detail, hands running around the edge, checking something neither Peter nor the detective could understand. He moved close to the entrance and allowed sun to reach the picture once again. He took some more time around each corner then turned it back and spent some time studying it in detail.

Walczak observed him for a moment then turned to Burke. "And he's an expert on what again?"

"Art forgery," was Peter's reply, followed quickly by a happy voice behind them.

"Alleged!" Neal concentrated back on the painting.

He grinned widely a minute later "Capists!" , but his exclamation was met with two confused stares.

" _Capisce_? No, we don't understand, and forged bonds can be pulled under art forgery, they do sometimes look like small artworks."

"Not  _capisce_ … Wait, you think my forgeries were works of art? Peter, thank you!"

The NYPD detective was looking at them not understanding. "Okay. Mr. Caffrey, so what is it?"

"Capists were a post-impressionist group of painters formed in the era between world wars in Poland." He shot a glance at Walczak. "You may have heard about them, you are from Poland, aren't you?"

She just shook her head. "Third generation, my grandpa was the only one to speak the language and we never talked about the country at home." She waved her hand in the direction of the canvases still on the pile. "So what's the verdict?"

"Ah, yes. I do recognize the style and frankly I'm surprised to see this here. If I'm not mistaken, this is 'A Bouquet with Kali in Yellow Vase' by Cybis. There are two more tests that should confirm that this is the original - x-ray and paint chemical analysis. If it's indeed correct there should be no sketch on the canvas under the paint, and the analysis will tell us if there is an abnormally-high level of lead in the paint," he explained.

"Abnormal lead level?" Peter asked, surprised. He knew quite a lot about painting forgeries after chasing Caffrey all around, but this was the first time he'd heard of this. There were lead-based paints, only a few colors, if he remembered correctly, and of course their levels were carefully monitored during production.

"You see, Cybis painted quite a lot before he died in 1972; this one is from 1957. During the Cold War, Poland was cut off from the West and forced into a very close relationship with the USSR. Art supplies were affected and painters had to use local versions with not-so-restrictive production procedures. Lead was added to all colors, not just yellow and white; that can be your other confirmation of authenticity." Neal was an expert on art, but the sheer number of painters around the world made it impossible to know every little bit about them. He knew the basics and he kept up with what was happening in the world but in this case he would need some technological backup. It didn't seem that someone had forged these, it looked more like they were stashed and forgotten.

"So those aren't forgeries?" Walczak asked.

"Most likely no. It wouldn't make sense to forge them, unless it was some test run. They aren't worth enough on the open market to be attractive to the underground. The last Cybis painting sold in a Christie's auction in Amsterdam went for around $20K," he shrugged.

"Chump change in your world, really not worth the hassle?" Peter grinned.

Neal just answered with one of his brilliant smiles and returned to the pile to look at more paintings.

Walczak looked at him with narrowed eyes, assessing what she knew and why the FBI art expert looked familiar. He moved again, coming out of the shadows with the next painting in hand. It clicked. A week ago his photo had been plastered all over the city, a running convict. Her hand involuntarily started to move towards her handcuffs; it stopped an inch before it got there when her eye spotted a small green light on a tracker around his ankle.

She blinked, shook her head and moved toward the exit. FBI, art forgers, breaking and entering: she had had enough for today. Without a word, she shot Burke a glance to follow and walked back to her car. Her partner should be around somewhere collecting a statement from the owner. It looked like nothing had gone missing - that was one of good things, less work for her. The only thing left to settle was what to do with the paintings; she had to think of a good way to convince the FBI to let the NYPD take over, or if they did, that they move the paintings to the insurance company as soon as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, Neal you can't do the analysis by yourself; we have a lab full of people to do it." The agent and his consultant were coming back from the cellar. In Neal's hand was one of the paintings.

"But Peter..." Neal started to protest.

" _O mój Boże!_ _Czy to jest Cybis_?" a young voice interrupted Neal. Peter and Neal looked in its direction, and spotted a twenty-something blond man accompanied by another man. The young man hurried over to look closer at the painting in Neal's hand. He reached out to grab the frame, but it was removed from his reach.

"I'm sorry and who are you?" Peter asked curiously.

"My apologies. I am owner, Hubert Dudek." He extended his hand to shake with Peter. "The painting - it is Cybis, right? My uncle told me about his collection, but I thought it was stolen long time ago."

"Stolen?" three voices asked at the same time.

"Yes, yes. Years ago, I was small boy, but Uncle Mateusz was devastated. Every time he visited us, he would talk about paintings, sometimes he would bring photos too." Dudek was obviously excited. "Can I see paintings now? Are they all there? There were twelve in my uncle's collection; it would be fantastic to have them back."

"Neal, show the painting to Mr. Dudek." Peter looked at Neal , sending an additional message with his eyes: keep him occupied for a moment but keep away from the other paintings. Neal nodded lightly and directed the young man's attention to the painting instead of his partner.

"Detective...?" Peter started asking the second man that had come with Dudek.

"Parker."

"Detective Parker, were your techs able to confirm that the tunnel and house cellar connection was closed shut? How come the thief or whoever entered the tunnel got to the cellar?"

"Correct, we found welding equipment in the tunnel; the doors were welded before, so yes, completely impossible to enter the tunnel from the cellar and back without some heavy work," Parker confirmed.

"Thanks, the FBI will be taking over the investigation. The paintings need to be checked for authenticity and we'll need to check the insurance claims, seems to me it's some kind of scam. Is the house fully checked and we can get at it?"

"Yeah, sure." He waved his hand and walked away in the direction of his partner.

Peter followed his movement with narrowed eyes; the detective pair was a strange one. Walczak gave him chills and Parker gave the impression that he didn't care about the case at all. He shook his head; maybe he was overreacting.

"Peter! Hubert was just telling me about his uncle, fascinating person. Did you know he smuggled the paintings out of Poland just after martial law was declared?" Neal's eyes shone brightly.

"Of course..." Peter just rolled his eyes. "Mr. Dudek, you mentioned that your uncle had photos of his collection; could you please bring them to us? And any documentation regarding the paintings' ownership and insurance?" he asked politely.

"Yes, one moment; there is whole album dedicated to this collection." He hesitated for a moment. "Agent Burke, about this smuggling, it ... it's ... it was only way to get the paintings out of country at the time ... and ... my uncle, he was owner already. He really was." The young man was looking at him with the most earnest expression he'd ever seen. He sighed internally; there was no good way to say it.

"Mr. Dudek, I'm sorry but whether the paintings were smuggled out of Poland or not, and whether your uncle was the owner or not, it will all be found out during the investigation. Most probably if the paintings were stolen from him here in the US, and he took the insurance claim, the paintings now belong to the insurance company. Now please bring the documents." Being a bearer of bad news always sucked. The man's face fell from its previous enthusiasm to disappointment. He rushed to the house, returning a few minutes later with a photo album and a stuffed folder.

"Thank you; we'll give them back as soon as possible." He handed Dudek his card. "Please stay in contact and don't leave the city till we clear this up."

"Hmm, how long will that be? My visa expires in two weeks and I have to be able to come back here."

"Visa?" Peter was surprised. No one had mentioned that Mr. Dudek wasn't a citizen. He looked around to find Neal; for sure he knew that already. But Neal was busy, coordinating transport of the paintings to the FBI lab, and from the looks of it also charming his way in with the female technician. His attention wandered back to Dudek.

"Yes, visa, Polish citizens require visa to enter US; only my uncle lived here. Do I need to call the embassy?" Hubert shifted from foot to foot nervously.

"No. Please come to my office the day after tomorrow. I'll arrange a meeting with the immigration office. If we need more time for investigation, and your presence is required, we'll ensure that your visa is valid a little bit longer. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Dudek." He shook his hand and got back into his car. He nodded to Walczak and Parker in goodbye and waved for Neal to get in the car.

Peter sighed, rubbing his hand over his hair. His gut was telling him that something was wrong; he just didn't know what, yet. Neal was quiet, busy with his phone. He frowned. Neal had been behaving unusually while meeting with the detective; he hadn't try to charm her, answered questions straight, and bantered with Peter only twice, ignoring the NYPD altogether both times.

 

* * *

 

Walczak and Parker observed Burke and Caffrey with Dudek. It went almost as planned except for one small detail: the FBI taking over was a calculated risk, the FBI keeping the paintings and not giving them to the insurance company right away - wasn't.

Margaret Walczak was fuming, shooting daggers in the direction of the FBI agent's car; if looks could kill the car would have exploded in flames. A hand on her shoulder brought her back to earth. They had work to do, find a solution to the current situation. Her eyes met her partner's brown ones and she calmed down slightly. No damned FBI agent and his pet convict would destroy her future. The cell in her pocket vibrated.

"Walczak."

"Are the paintings secured?" a male voice asked.

"No, FBI took over as expected, but..." She trailed before continuing. "They won't give them to the insurance company right away."

"Why?"

"Seems he took the insurance claim, but the paintings were hidden just outside his home. FBI suspects fraud."

"I don't care, I want my paintings. You have to take care of it. Understood?" The command was given in an ice-cold voice.

"Understood," she repeated. The call disconnected. Damn.

She looked at her partner again. "Let's go, we have a job to do."

 

* * *

 

"Neal... Neal, wake up."

"Go away, Moz," was the muttered response.

"If the Suit works you to exhaustion this whole deal will be finished long before your four years are up."

"Huh?" Neal was obviously still deep in la-la land, head cuddled up in crooked arms, both lying on the table. "What time is it?" He finally looked at Moz, rubbing his eyes.

"Midnight. I'm sure that the bed in that corner is much more comfortable than the table."

"It usually is."

"What was so important I had to get here today?"

Neal dragged fingers through his hair, messing it even more. "Moz, I need a favor."

The small man just raised an eyebrow in question.

"I need you to visit a small town by Leech Lake in Minnesota called Whipholt. Clean out a safety deposit box belonging to one Nolan Johnson. Can you do that this week?" Neal was walking around the table emphasizing each word with hand gestures.

"Why would I do that?" Mozzie wasn't convinced. "Does it have anything to do with Kate?"

"No, Moz, not this time. I need to give back something I took a long time ago. To win some of Peter's trust, to convince him to help me find Kate. He'll be more willing to do that if he believes he can trust me more." Neal pinched his nose; the headache that had followed him the whole day was still there.

"'The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. " He suspended his voice pending the usual chime-in of the name associated with the quote. When it didn't come, he added, "Carl Jung."

He gave Neal a sharp look. "How come you first told Kate the stash was in San Diego, then me it's in Portland, and now you tell me it's in some dead-end place in Minnesota just to please the Suit?" Mozzie crossed his arms and looked at Neal, full of expectation.

Neal just shook his head, took a wine bottle from the rack and poured into two glasses. He handed one to Moz.

"'Reveal not every secret you have to a friend, for how can you tell but that friend may hereafter become an enemy. And bring not all mischief you are able to upon an enemy, for he may one day become your friend.'" Neal toasted and drank a sip.

"Ah, my friend Saadi. Someone was reading again. Very well, I've decided a trip out of the city could do me some good. I can take care of it by the end of this week."

"Thanks, Moz!" Neal toasted to him again and drained the glass; it was a good time to finish the day.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day started without any new cases, no revelations on current ones, and lots of paperwork. Before lunch, Neal finished his investigation on the last insurance fraud he'd been working on, helped Jones with deciding on a restaurant to take his girlfriend for their anniversary, and teased Cruz about her coffee-making skills.

Peter finally waved him over. For the whole morning he'd been trying to talk to him about the Cybis case: something was fishy about it, he just didn't know what yet. But every time he took a moment to look across the bullpen towards Peter's office, he was either by Hughes' desk discussing something or on the phone; and boy he looked pissed. Neal had enough self-preservation skills to leave it be; the case wasn't running anywhere, and their moment would come soon enough.

"Peter, what's got you so twisted, I don't think I've heard about you being so anxious since the Raphael went missing." Neal eyed the files spread around Peter's desk. None of them were from their current or cold cases.

"Yes and whose fault was that? If you hadn't stolen the Raphael, I would not have had the museum curator, his two best friends - Senators - and an angry Hughes on my back. It was bad enough you'd been eluding me for over two years." Peter moved the papers around, not allowing him to see the details.

"Allegedly stole the Raphael, Peter!" Neal protested as usual, still trying to read the files upside down.

"No, you keep away from this case. I don't want you anywhere near, understood?" Peter was serious; a finger pointing in Neal's direction stressed the point.

"At least tell me what it's about, and I promise to try to keep away. It's easier if I know what I should avoid." A bright smile, and Neal's version of 'genuine' face did the trick.

"You've heard, of course, of Simone Tommasi. Whatever you see or hear about him, report straight back to me, and under no circumstances go fishing for more information; just tell me what you heard and walk away. Far, far away."

Of course he'd heard of him; whoever was involved in any kind of criminal activity in New York knew about Tommasi. Mobster extraordinaire. He had advanced from small jobs of collecting 'security fees' via extortion, beatings and rumored murder to managing money laundering, and in the end had taken over the whole Italian mob in the city. Whatever you did, it was better to either keep away from Tommasi or be prepared to be as ruthless; if not, it always ended bad for you.

Before he could answer, Peter hailed Jones. "Jones, keep an eye on Caffrey. You are now lead on the Cybis case; there's something fishy going on and I want it cleared up before we move the paintings to the insurance company. Neal, you know what to do, and no, you keep away from that lab." Sometimes Peter's uncanny ability to read Neal's mind was scary. But without it he would probably never have caught him.

"Boss," Lauren knocked on the open door, a file in her hand. "The results of the analysis of the paintings."

Peter just waved his hand. "Jones is the lead on that."

The junior agent nodded and directed Cruz to the conference room. Neal stopped by the door, his whole body tense.

"Peter, be careful."

"I'm just the brains of the operation, Ruiz the face." Peter dismissed his concerns.

"Tommasi has a nasty habit of going not only after the face, but also the brains."

"Speaking from experience?"

He hesitated. "Sort of." Without another word he moved to the conference room; during the short trip his whole body posture changed. Gone was the concerned friend - body tense, shoulders and arms slightly bent inwards - to be replaced with the con-man mask, squared shoulders and dazzling smile.

 

* * *

When Neal entered the room Lauren was giving folders to the Harvard crew, while Jones sorted through the documents provided yesterday by Mr. Dudek.

"The test confirmed that the paintings are originals. On all, the paints used had a similar high level of lead, about 40% higher than Western European norms from that time period. On five of them three sets of fingerprints were found, on the next six only two. Till now the lab has been able to identify only one set of prints - they belong to Markus Detlef," Cruz started.

Another thick folder hit the table, brought by one of the clerks; smaller copies with summaries were handed to all.

"Detlef was a petty thief, involved mostly in small heists. Not smart enough to work for himself, usually bullied along into bigger scores because of his lock-picking skills."

"Was?"

"Found shot to death in 1990, two point blank to the chest, one stab wound."

Neal moved the murder photos aside, and began to study quite a long rap sheet of one Markus Detlef. The thick file started with his last exploit: theft in an electronics store; he spent three months in jail for that, being released just three weeks prior to his death. He shook his head sadly; Markus was only twenty-seven years old, and his file, he noticed, surprised, included juvenile records which went back as far as his early teens. Finally, after reading of the less-than-successful stunts, he moved on to the murder report.

The body was found slightly frozen; the coroner's report set time of death around four in the morning on March 11, 1990, partially hidden behind a dumpster in a back alley behind West 81st Street. The investigation was closed three months later, no murder weapon found, no witnesses, no motive, no culprit.

Jones spread the lab photos on the table; together with Lauren they studied the pictures, comparing them to the album - trying to put names to the photos. The Harvard crew browsed through various certificates, long sheets filled only with dates, foreign names and numbers. For a long time all that was heard was the rustling of paper from several folders.

They'd been creating a nice line of big pictures with numbers and names pinned on the board. Neal shot glances in its direction every few minutes, noting the progress in the back of his mind. He glanced at the board again; the agents were sitting at the end of the table, obviously finished with putting up the photos. Eleven? That wasn't right.

"Where's the twelfth painting?"

All movement stopped. Heads turned and Neal found himself suddenly on the receiving end of six questioning gazes. He blinked, surprised, then stared back. "What?"

"Only eleven were recovered from the tunnel." Lauren shuffled the lab report papers. "Nope, still only eleven. Why'd you think there were a dozen of them?"

"Something that Hubert said about his uncle's collection."

Peter chose this moment to put his head into the conference room; he shot a glance at the board, his brows coming together in confusion. "Where's the twelfth painting?"

This time the question generated the expected reaction: agents eagerly grabbed folders lying around to search for any information about the mysterious painting.

Peter, still looking confused, looked at Neal and mouthed, "what?"

Neal just smiled brilliantly and mouthed back, "cat's no longer away."

That earned him a mock-angry scowl and another mouth-talk, "shush, mouse," and with that he disappeared back to his office.

They'd combed through the files again and again, each time finding some new puzzle piece. Late in the evening they more or less had a full picture. Mr. Szczepanski, Hubert's uncle, came to the US in 1979 as a political refugee. He opened a small art gallery that dealt mostly with Eastern European painters.

In reality this was a very good cover for a money-laundering operation, on a big scale. As the pieces alone were not worth much, and didn't grab lots of attention, it was easy to ensure they changed hands often. The gallery sold a canvas to someone, that someone sold it to someone else, the operation was repeated a few times and then the painting went back to the gallery. Szczepanski had kept very good track of where all of the paintings had gone and from whom he'd bought them back. That alone gave the FBI quite a nice picture of who'd needed to launder money, at least till 1990.

In February, the twelve paintings by Cybis were sold to none other than Mr. Simone Tommasi. In April, Szczepanski made an insurance claim for a million dollars due to paintings being stolen. On the claims list they finally found the name of the last painting. The transactions list had no longer been updated after that; there was also no information as to when the paintings were bought back by the gallery.

They finally decided to call it a day. Neal informed them about the meeting already set with Dudek, so they could ask their remaining questions to him directly. They needed the rest of the documentation from the gallery: it had closed when his uncle retired; it was possible it was still in the house. They still had two sets of fingerprints to identify, and surprisingly, a missing painting to find.

Everyone had already left for the night, but Neal still moved around the room. Something was nagging at his mind, some detail he had overlooked in the files. He started looking through the documents again, his eyes stopping on the coroner's report attached to the murder scene description. An idea started to form...

Neal's phone buzzed, the screen showing 'Unknown number'; he pushed the pickup button.

"Did you know that the Soviets sent 'inconvenient persons' to Siberia?" Mozzie's voice was raised against the whistling sound of wind.

"Moz? Where are you, I can barely hear you!" Neal almost shouted into the phone.

"In Hell! When it froze over! I'm in Whipholt, searching for your precious safety deposit box!"

"You told me you would be there at the end of the week. It's not even Wednesday."

"My point exactly." Trust Mozzie to be paranoid. "What bank was the box supposed to be in?"

"I don't remember; there's only one bank there."

"Eeeezzz." Mozzie sounded like a buzzer in a talent show eliminating you from further competition. "That might have been true years ago. Now there are three of them."

"I don't know. Just check the oldest one."

"I will; there is a small problem though. It was robbed a few years back."

"What do you mean robbed? I spent six months ensuring this bank was secure!"

"Not secure enough against a shotgun." The connection dropped.

Neal banged his head on the table; it wasn't possible, no one robbed a bank in the middle of nowhere, what kind of idiot would do that! He grabbed his jacket in frustration and marched out of the office. Whatever idea he'd had about the case now disappeared in thoughts about brainless robbers.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing they did in the morning was inform Peter about the connection between the stolen paintings, the gallery and Tommasi. That alone almost got them blackballed from the investigation. Cruz, Jones and Caffrey first watched Peter talking to Hughes, then Peter on the phone, then Ruiz storming into the bullpen and into Peter's office. It was for some time like a tennis match, Peter and Ruiz being the players, the words exchanged the ball, Hughes as the line judge. It was almost ten when it seemed that the discussion was over and the agents had finally come to an agreement.

Right on time, as five minutes later Hubert Dudek came in, accompanied by one of the junior agents. Jones invited him to the conference room and went to inform Peter, leaving Neal to chat with the guest.

Peter was still buzzing with emotions after the discussion. He didn't want his team involved in that case, not directly anyway. He had his reasons why he refused to be the head of the Organized Crime Division. It was difficult, gruesome, often bloody work, quite dangerous not only for the agents but also their families. Part of his anger came from fear: fear for his junior agents, for El, even for Neal. He cursed inwardly - he had agreed to let them all continue the Cybis case; he just hoped it wouldn't turn against him.

The meeting has gone quite well, although Peter asked quite detailed questions for which he got mostly "I don't know" answers, but still they managed to get a few concrete ones. After an hour they took a break; Peter showed Mr. Dudek the way to the bathroom and joined Neal and Jones at the coffee pot.

They were of course discussing what else could they ask. "Peter, if we could get the rest of the documents about the gallery it could provide more evidence against Tommasi, and maybe could help solve the insurance scam on the paintings," Jones reminded them.

"We also need a way to identify his uncle's prints; I think the second set is his." Neal added quickly.

The puzzles came together and an idea stuck instantly. Prints. "What's-his-name ... once applied for citizenship, right? Then we may be able to pull his prints out of the USCIS database. Jones, take care of that." The return of their guest marked the end of break; Neal poured an additional cup of coffee and followed Peter.

Half an hour later he sent Mr. Dudek home, with Cruz and a few other agents, to collect all the documentation that could be found. The situation was starting to look more and more promising.

A minute later Ruiz rushed through the doors, a large stack of files in his hands. He put everything in the conference room and gathered the rest of the agents; the stacks of documents grew. The next few hours were spent on reviewing all the papers over and over again, reviewing new papers that Cruz and the team brought back, brainstorming ideas.

 _  
_

* * *

 

 

 

  
It was rather late for lunch, but they'd worked past the usual time with the files. Peter and Ruiz left to follow some mob-related leads. The rest of the team spread out around the office to do paperwork and make calls. Everyone who wasn't involved in the stolen-paintings investigation, or who'd already finished their stack of papers and calls, had already left the offices for a well-deserved break. Only a few agents remained, in addition to Neal.

 

Agent Lucero stormed into the White Collar bullpen, anger coloring his face red, hands shaking, stormy eyes moving quickly around to spot his target. He grabbed Neal by the lapels and pulled him out of the chair, shaking to emphasize each word, "You sick bastard! What game are you playing? Tell me the truth, dammit! Who are you?"

A moment later he was dragged away by Jones and Kendrick.

"Neal? You okay?" Cruz asked, worried to see a 'deer-in-the-lights' look on the con man's face.

Lucero was still trying to get to him; the FBI agents were having trouble calming him down.

"What do you think you're doing? Lucero! My office. Now!" Hughes' voice boomed through the bullpen. "Kendrick, you too. Jones, where's Burke?"

"Checking a lead, sir," Jones answered, already fishing his mobile out of his pocket and pressing speed dial.

"Get him here. Cruz, make sure Caffrey's all right. I don't need a lawsuit on my hands." He waited for the agents to enter his office before not-so-gently closing the door.

Exactly seven minutes later Peter stormed through; he shot one look at Neal but moved forward to enter his boss's office where the other agents still waited.

Neal was observing Hughes' office when a folded paper hit the table beside his hand; the page showed FBI people loading paintings into a truck. Neal's profile was visible talking with the lab technician by the van.

"You're awfully popular with the papers, Caffrey," Ruiz snorted, leaving the office. He didn't even notice the agent entering the bullpen again, too concentrated on observing the SAC's office.

He took a brief look at the photo, not noticing himself at first, then the fleeting thought from yesterday came back. The address. He ran into Peter's office and grabbed files from the corner of the desk, quickly finding their copy of the Mayfield case. He took it, opened it to the summary page and went to the conference room. He set the file on the table then started looking for the summary file for Markus Detlef, then for the sheet he'd seen with the address of where the paintings were found.

Jones followed Neal to the conference room; he signaled for Lauren to join him. Together they observed Neal looking through the cartons of papers they'd just used in the meeting. He finally set out two files together, took one loose sheet of paper and started making notes.

"Found anything interesting?" Jones asked.

Neal finished writing, took another long look at his notes and then finally answered, "I think we have three or even four connected cases, if you count Tommasi's involvement." He showed his notes to the agents. The West 81st Street address was written at the top of the page, from it three lines went in separate directions: the first to Markus Detlef and murder; the second to Anthony Mayfield and kidnapping; and the third to Tommasi and painting thefts with a small note saying West 82nd below.

"You think that the Mayfield case is connected?" Cruz was full of doubts.

"Yeah, my gut is telling me it is. It's where they lived, where the kid disappeared from and where Detlef's body was found. Anthony might have been a murder witness." He added a dotted line connecting Anthony and murder, scribbling 'witness' above it, then another line connected paintings theft and Detlef, titling it 'thief - errand boy'.

The little triumphant moment was interrupted by the group leaving Hughes' office. Lucero and Kendrick stormed out, both this time throwing nasty glares in Neal's direction. Even Hughes' gaze wasn't something he'd seen before, even when he'd been arrested the week earlier. "Burke, you deal with Caffrey," was the hasty command, and the SAC retreated to his office, shutting the door.

Jones and Cruz almost ran out of the conference room; at least they had enough guts to send a 'sorry' look in Neal's direction before leaving him alone with a fuming Peter.

Neal took one look at Peter's face and instinctively took a step back. Peter was beyond angry; he could actually see fury shimmering just beneath the surface.

"What was it? Mommy and daddy not giving you what you wanted? Sending you to bed early without supper?" He put his hands flat on the table. "What makes a twelve-year-old run from a normal, good home and lie his whole life?" The hands were up and moving again, a finger pointing at a speechless Neal. "Tell me! Was it worth it? Were you really hoping that no one would ever find out? Or was that your longest con, con for life?" The silence and unbelieving look on Neal's face was the only answer. "Answer me! Dammit!" One hand hit the table hard, making a noise like a gunshot. That seemed to shake Neal out of shock.

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you play innocent now, Neal!"

Neal visibly straightened his posture. "I have no freaking idea! Lucero shakes me like a rag-doll, then all in the know disappear into Hughes' office, and when you all come out I get a dressing-down for nothing. So yeah, I have no clue what you're talking about!"

"What do you think, Neal. The DNA test came back - it was a match. You are Anthony Mayfield!"

Neal was taken aback for a moment. "No! How many times do I have to tell you this, I'm not him! Didn't you listen to me the first time?"

"Then how do you explain the DNA match? Or was that the point of flirting with Julia, to swap the sample? To pretend to be Anthony? What for?" He stopped for a moment just to take a deep breath. "And your little explanation about the Museum? Bull! There was no theft reported at the Museum of Natural History in October 1990. What the hell is going on, are you Anthony? Or are you trying to be him?"

"I'm not him and I didn't even try to pretend I was! It's ridiculous!" Neal had had enough; he tried to get past Peter still standing by the door but the older man grabbed his arm, stopping him.

"Oh no, you are not going anywhere till you fully explain yourself and I can believe that explanation."

Neal looked at him coldly. "Is that a threat, Agent Burke? I already explained and I didn't lie to you. Now, am I under arrest? If not, I'm going home." He jerked his arm, surprised when it came free; without looking back he stormed out of the conference room and left.

 _  
**  
**   
_

* * *

_  
_

 

"Hon?" her quiet voice jolted him out of limbo.

He was thinking a lot about what had happened in the office today. The DNA results, Neal, Lucero. Was it possible that he'd missed something in Caffrey, some trait that made him lie no matter what the end effect on other people would be?

Elizabeth sat behind him on the couch, wrapping her arms around his torso and hugging from behind. "What's going on? Is it Neal?"

"Why do you think it's Caffrey?" he grunted.

"Honey, it's always Neal-related when you're so grumpy and ... well, calling him Caffrey? Really? What did he do?" She kissed his temple.

Peter was quiet for few minutes, allowing his thoughts to run free and relaxing into El's hug. Then he started to explain the cases and his point of view. El listened, from time to time adding a comment or asking a question; finally they both fell silent.

"Hon, it's Neal, he might con everyone around but he tries very hard to be honest with you; give him the benefit of the doubt. I don't think he's Anthony, nor is he trying to be."

"But El, he was disappointed when we explained that the parents made their own investigation and claimed that he is Tony. And the DNA match, you can't fake those."

"Of course he was disappointed, but just because he didn't think of it first! Well ... and the DNA, didn't you tell me once that the DNA tests aren't always conclusive, you always need more proof?" She kissed his cheek, smiling at his surprised look. She added an extra bounce to her step while going up; sometimes Peter was just silly.


	7. Chapter 7

_  
**20 years ago - March 11, 1990**   
_

_He woke abruptly to a clicking noise somewhere outside his window. The whole room was in darkness, furniture just a never-ending black space. A car drove by. The lights shining through the windows lit up first the celling, next the shelf with sport trophies, stretching their shadows. He shook his head and wiped his eyes; the room was a little bit more vivid now, the red numbers on the clock reading 3:43 AM. He sighed; being sent to bed early without supper usually ended this way, him waking up in the middle of the night. His stomach rumbled. Yeah, and also hungry. He hissed when his bare feet touched cold floor. Moments later he crept slowly and carefully through the corridor to the kitchen: it was sandwich time._

 _With sandwich in one hand and glass of orange juice in the other, he sat by the window. The wind was moving branches, playing a sad song in the trees; garbage flying around added an eerie feeling to the empty street. The sandwich was almost finished when another car slowly rode down the street; it passed his window and halted in the middle of the street. Without killing the engine the driver got out of the car and went to the passenger door; he opened it and dragged a man out._

 _The passenger seemed younger than the driver, but the light from the street lamp hid most of his face in shadow. The other man looked around and started to drag his companion in the direction of the building._

 _He moved slowly from his position to get a better look; he was hoping to recognize the younger man. If that was Mr. Nolan from number six it would be fun to tease him about his nighttime adventures. What he saw was the face of the driver - he looked old, well for him everyone did - Mario Brothers kind of mustache, mouth a thin line, eyebrows thick and close together giving him a mean look. He froze when the man looked around again and pushed the other guy into the entrance to the back alley, in his right hand a gun; the muzzle flashed twice, the sound muffled by wind._

 _The shooter looked around again and hastily moved toward the car, he was almost in when lights went on on the second floor; he noticed a kid in the window looking directly at him. Gray eyes moved slowly over the kid's face to memorize it. A moment later the boy was gone; he got behind the wheel and drove away._

 _He was stunned; such things only happened in the movies, right? He'd wanted to move away from the window before the shooter came back to the car. Suddenly the light in the kitchen had gone on and blinded him for a second; when the white spots cleared, he'd looked directly into the gray eyes of the killer._

 _He quickly pivoted. His kid sister stood in the door rubbing her eyes with both hands. "Me ti'sty," she whined. She was like a little monkey, always climbing out of her bed in the middle of the night._

 _He looked back to the street; the car was long gone, no other sign of it left. Maybe it was all a bad dream. He lifted his sister and put her on his hip, with one hand finding a sippy cup and filling it with juice. She launched at it like she hadn't drunk in ages._

" _Easy, Beanie, slow down." He switched the lights off and very slowly moved to get Bianca back to bed. Ten minutes later he was back in his own. Just before falling asleep he saw the cold gray eyes again._

* * *

 _  
**Back to reality**   
_

Something woke him up; not sure what, he pretended to be asleep, trying to locate the disturbance.

"I know you're awake." A quiet voice flew through the apartment.

He groaned, opening his eyes to dawn light streaming through the windows. Mozzie was sitting at the table, a paper cup in his hand and a pile of books by his arm.

"Moz, what are you doing here at the crack of dawn?" Neal yawned. It was a few minutes after six; he wasn't sure if Peter would pick him up today so he should start the day anyway.

"I come bearing gifts and that's how you welcome me?"

"Gifts?"

Mozzie nodded and pointed to the pile of books.

Neal picked up the first book and carefully opened the cover; he put it down and did the same with the others. "How?" he asked, surprised.

"Luck?"

"What?" Neal obviously was not fully awake.

"The bank robbers, they only cleared out the cashiers' drawers, didn't even try to enter the vault. Everything was still where it was supposed to be." Moz slowly sipped his tea.

He put the cup down and took a small black pouch out of his pocket; he opened it, allowing the contents to fall out. The stones shone brightly in the morning light; green, red and white stripes of color danced on the walls. "You sure you want to give them back? I can liquidate them without problem, prepare for you a 'disappear kit', for after I finally figure out how to get you out of the anklet." Mozzie was eager for some new action.

Seeing the books and gems together again brought back good memories for Neal.

Stealing the books as well as gems was his first bigger heist, done mostly on impulse to see if he could do it. The school trip was a perfect opportunity; an added bonus was that his current girlfriend was there too, and he used the occasion to its fullest. Afterward he had a little scary moment when the police talked to everyone that was in the museum, but they were actually more concerned about ensuring that all the tourists were safe.

Neal just looked at Moz pointedly and left to take a shower. When he came back, Mozzie was nowhere in sight, the books and pouch were left on the table, and on the terrace stood his usual breakfast tray.

* * *

Peter entered the office early in the morning; he'd spent half the night tossing and turning, his mind on Neal and the DNA results. El was right, he'd jumped to conclusions; he didn't have any other proof that Neal was Anthony or had tried to be him. Neither did he have proof showing him otherwise. Therefore he'd spent half the night thinking things over.

As expected the office was almost deserted, only one or two agents had started already. He filled his cup with fresh coffee and as he started to look over the documents on his desk, a loose page fell from between the files. He looked at the notes, surprised; in Neal's neat handwriting was a diagram of their cases nicely and clearly connected, and the common point was the address. He cursed. He was stupid; if Anthony was a witness to murder no wonder he had disappeared. It was good enough motive for a kid to run away, or for the killer to remove the witness. He grabbed the phone to check a few things with Ruiz.

"Burke here. Would Tommasi order a hit on a thief and the kid that witnessed it?"

"Today, sure he would. But if you're asking about Detlef, it was twenty years ago; Tommasi would have been the one getting the order. Why the kid?"

"Just a gut feeling. Do we have the warrant for the money laundering?"

"Still waiting. I'll let you know."

"Thanks." Before he could put the receiver down, the phone rang.

"Yes?"

"Agent Burke?" a male voice asked.

"Yes, this is Peter Burke."

"Hello, I'm Dr. Carmichael from the labs? I was informed that the DNA results for the Mayfield case should be delivered to you as soon as they're ready. The file is on its way."

"One moment; yesterday I received info that the DNA was a match."

"I'm sorry about that, one of our technicians was little too eager to provide results; the final test results were available only a few minutes ago."

"So was it a match or no?"

"The nuclear DNA was a match to the provided sample. The mitochondrial test we ran overnight on the missing person's database provided a negative result."

"I don't understand."

"The PCR analysis method we use for tests is normally considered enough, with additional evidence, for a criminal case. We checked only a few markers and they matched the CODIS sample, and those can repeat in one in two hundred thousand samples. As the documentation was marked 'no proof' and we had good samples from the family we also were able to do a mitochondrial genome comparison to confirm a family connection. "

"So this was negative?"

"It was negative. The person from which the test sample came is unrelated to the test subject."

"Thank you, Doctor."

He sighed deeply; he had made a huge mistake jumping to conclusions. But he was so sure when Lucero told him about the result. He turned his chair to the window and considered the facts again. Neal hadn't lied about his age, or name - he'd had that confirmed after the first arrest; the allergy was confirmed in prison; the only issue was the museum heist. During the timeline under consideration, the alarms were only triggered twice: the first was a test of the security systems, confirmed by the alarm company; the second a fire alarm caused by a real fire in the library. Library - Neal had stolen books, and knowing his sneakiness and tendency to not leave any leads was it possible that he caused the fire as a distraction? He spun the chair to face the desk again and grabbed the folder with the museum documents.

A soft knock caught his attention. Neal stood in his office door, a paper bag under his arm; unusual for him, he looked unsure. Considering how their talk yesterday had ended, Peter wasn't surprised.

"Neal," he greeted the man calmly.

"Peter." Neal treated it as an invitation and sat on his usual visitor chair. He put the bag on Peter's desk.

"What's that?"

"Open it."

Peter moved the bag closer and unfolded the paper; slowly he extracted a black pouch and three quite-old-looking books. He spilled the pouch contents into his hand.

"You were supposed to give it back to the museum, not to me," he murmured, more to himself than to Neal.

"After our talk yesterday, I thought it would be better to give it to you. Now you have proof I took it; I didn't lie to you, Peter. Will you believe now that I'm not Anthony?" There was unguarded pleading in Neal's eyes, something he didn't see often.

He sighed and ran his hand over his face, "Neal…."

"I really don't know how to convince you otherwise," he started again.

Peter raised his hand to stop him. "I believe you."

"You do?" Neal was clearly surprised; he didn't expect it to be so easy.

"The lab called. They were a little bit too fast yesterday with the results; it wasn't a match."

"Then why.…" Neal trailed off, unsure what he really wanted to ask.

"You should really control your impulse to flirt with every girl in sight. The lab tech - Julia - was a little bit too eager to provide results, probably hoping to see you again."

"Mozzie says I have no impulse control," he sulked.

"He's right."

"Hey!" the protest was only half-hearted. He was actually glad that things were starting to get back to normal between him and Peter. He eyed the papers in Peter's hand, this time easily reading the fire department report.

"I assume you had nothing to do with the fire?" Peter asked after a moment of comfortable silence.

Neal looked at him, offended. "Who do you think I am; fire is as dangerous as guns, plus the number of priceless artifacts that could be destroyed..." He shook his head. "No, I would never do that. The fire started after I ... borrowed the books."

"Stole. Borrowing would indicate you had permission to take them and intended to give them back. Which you didn't."

"But I'm giving them back. See, borrowed."

"Only because I told you to!" His eyes narrowed. "What do you want? You never do what I tell you."

"Hey, I resent that, I do what you tell me!" He paused for a moment. "Most of the time." He moved the pile of documents from one corner to another. "I don't want anything; can't you just trust me?"

Peter regarded him, mentally counting to twenty; by ten Neal was squirming in his chair, by fifteen his fingers found a loose paper clip and bent it over and over again, by twenty Neal was opening his mouth again. Sometimes making Caffrey nervous was too easy. He wanted something, but he let it pass this time.

"So," Peter was first, "what was your distraction?"

Neal's whole face lit up with impish glee. "I kissed the nearest girl, made sure that my girlfriend saw that then pushed her off, exclaiming that I had a girlfriend and she better leave me alone. You can't imagine the chaos of a teenage girls' cat fight!"

Peter snorted, then openly laughed; only Neal Caffrey would use jealous teen girls as a distraction.

* * *

The couple entering the offices caught everyone's attention. Both were distinguished in a very Caffreyesque way - tailored clothes, perfectly styled white-gray hair and an air of confidence. The lady looked at Peter and Neal standing in the office; her mouth moved soundlessly, "Tony."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have limited knowledge about DNA and how the tests are really going but the possibility of repeated code, when only markers are checked are correct (assuming anything that can be found in internet is correct ;)) so please bear with me if you are more knowledgeable in this area ;)


	8. Chapter 8

They were ready to continue with the investigations; Peter put the books and pouch back into the bag and put it in one of the desk drawers. He already was standing when the phone rang. Peter almost rolled his eyes.

"Burke."

"Ruiz here. We got the warrant; wanna join us?"

He shot a glance at Neal, but then a movement in the bullpen drew his attention.

"Nah. I have something to do; let me know how the arrest goes." He quickly put the receiver down.

Neal stood up, a smile on his face, ready to shoot a quirky comment. Peter's hand clasped his shoulder, his eyes darting behind him.

"Neal..." he started.

"Peter, what is it?"

Neal turned around just as the older lady mouthed, "Tony."

"The Mayfields," he murmured. He turned again to look at Peter, lost and unsure what to do. "Peter..."

"Don't worry, we'll handle it. You want to stay here for a while?" Neal just shook his head, he wanted this part of the case to be closed. They descended the stairs slowly, moving towards the older pair.

"My god. It's so good to see you." Blue eyes filled with tears; she took a step to hug Neal, but he stepped back.

Ed caught her hand,"Honey, give the boy a moment."

Peter intervened, "Mrs. and Mr. Mayfield, hello, I'm Agent Peter Burke. Could I please ask you to go with Agent Jones to the conference room. We'll be right there." He noticed Lucero and Kendrick exiting the elevator; they shot grim looks in Neal's direction, but otherwise pretended he wasn't there.

"Burke. Ready for some explanations?" Lucero started.

Peter was more than ready for another word fight like yesterday, when a person in a white lab coat bumped into Kendrick. The young woman looked awfully familiar.

"Agent Burke?" she asked.

"Here," Peter acknowledged, drawing her attention.

She extended a hand with a green folder. "Test results from Dr. Carmichael, he told me he already called?" Her face flushed.

"Julia, right?"

She nodded; that would explain the familiarity-the lab tech that was too eager to provide results; she was by the van the day they found the paintings.

"I'm ... sorry, very sorry about yesterday." She shot a shy look in Neal's direction, then her eyes were directed at her shoes. Peter just sighed.

"It's okay, nothing we can't handle."

"Uhm, do you know where I can find Agent Lucero? He wasn't in his office."

Peter just pointed with the folder at the other agent.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She gave Lucero a second file from her hand; with a last look in Neal's direction, and with another flush on her face she ran away.

Kendrick was surprised. "What was that about? I thought the results were delivered yesterday." Lucero was already engrossed in the file.

"That's the problem, the results were wrong. Well ... I'm not an expert, partially correct, partially wrong. Anyway in the end there was no match. Neal isn't Anthony. And you acted too fast getting the Mayfields here."

"Shit!" was the simultaneous exclamation from both agents.

"Now what?"

"Now you two go back to your office and let me and Neal clear the air with the parents."

"It's our case, Burke!" Lucero protested.

"And you mightily fucked up, so let us handle it."

Neal shifted from foot to foot, shooting nervous glances between the conference room and the agents. The agents were locked in a staring competition that seemed to be endless. Finally Lucero gave up, shook his head and without another word just left. Kendrick stood there stunned for a second before following.

Peter took a look at Neal and made a decision. "Neal, you better stay here. I'll call you in few minutes."

"But..."

"No buts... I'm about to dash the parents' hope that they found their missing child. Don't make it more difficult for them and for me."

The call came just before he entered the room again.

"Burke."

"Ruiz here. Tommasi fled the scene before we could arrest him."

"I'll loan you Jones and Cruz to coordinate from the offices; did you put the APB?"

"No, your people can handle that. We're still seizing what we found - it'll be lots of evidence."

"Okay, let me know if something changes." He disconnected. He called Clinton out of the conference room and quietly issued orders.

When the junior agent left he took a deep breath and entered the room to deliver the news.

* * *

 

Peter walked to Jones' desk not even half an hour later. It was harder than he thought; Mrs. Mayfield-Victoria, as she requested to be called-had started to cry. Like most men, he just couldn't stand a woman's tears; he gratefully left when Edgar asked, giving them some time to calm down.

"Hey Jones, where's Caffrey?"

"I sent him on a coffee run; he was way too jittery. He should be back in a minute."

Neal stepped out of the coffee shop; he still felt a little bit jittery with anticipation. He stopped for a moment to enjoy the warm rays of the sun. He was a few hundred yards from the federal building when he noticed a few people looking at him curiously; one even stared at him openly. The last time it had happened was a day or two after his jump, just after he was cleared and stopped trying to disguise his face. The curious looks were repeating more often with each step, he was maybe a hundred steps away from the building entrance when he noticed a man with dark hair, in a suit maybe a shade lighter than his, and with his face. He stopped, surprised. A second later shots rang out to his left; he dropped down on instinct, the cups landing on the sidewalk with a splash. Screams of terrified people mixed with the sound of another shot.

A few moments later Neal lifted his head after ensuring that nothing was being fired any more and carefully accessed the seemed everything was under control: some uniformed cops had stormed over; a few FBI agents had run out of the building, their guns drawn. A man in a trench coat was tackled to the ground and handcuffed. A pair of plainclothes cops put him in the back of a car, spent a few seconds talking to their uniformed buddies and drove away.

Neal stood up after hearing "clear" repeated several times both from cops and the agents. Looking in dismay at his coffee-stained suit, he started to move toward the place he'd last seen his doppelganger, only to find him gone.

 __

* * *

 

The sun shone on the glass, reflecting his face for a moment. Blue eyes met gray in the reflection. Time stopped and then rewound at the speed of light. He saw the gun, but absorbed in the memory, he confused it with the past. The muzzle flashed.

"Nooo!"

He took off, trying to run away from the picture in his mind.

"Dammit!" A small feminine figure ran behind him. "Wait!"

But he didn't hear her, running through open doors and towards the elevator. She followed quickly only to be stopped by a uniformed guard. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't get in without a pass."

"Are you out of your mind? My brother just got through and you didn't stop him!"

He looked at her, surprised. "Is Mr. Caffrey your brother?"

"What? No, his name is Brian." She started to seek a way in, when someone caught her elbow. She turned, surprised.

"I think I can help." Neal smiled. "Victor, do you mind? I'll escort Ms. Mayfield to the office. They have a meeting with Peter." Without waiting for confirmation he pulled her towards the elevators. She was looking at him in astonishment for the whole ride to the twenty-first floor.

* * *

 

Peter was reading another file given to him by Jones; they were still getting new ones from the search of Tommasi's place. The blue pants showed in his peripheral view.

"Caffrey, there you are." He started to raise his head, from pants to the open jacket, through light pink shirt and matching tie. He took a closer look; didn't Neal have on today one of his cartoonish ties, black and slim? Now it was pink with white diagonal stripes.

"Brian!" Peter's head snapped - before him stood an almost-perfect copy of Neal Caffrey. Besides the tie there were only two differences he noticed immediately: a scar on his chin and an absent look in his eyes.

His eyes darted quickly to the voice owner - a lady in her mid-twenties was followed by another Caffrey; this one had the correct tie, and coffee stains on his suit. He quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"Peter! I see you met Brian; this is Bianca Mayfield."

"Hello, I'm Agent Peter Burke." He extended his hand in greeting. "I can't say I met Brian, he just came in and..." He looked behind his shoulder. "He's just standing there gazing into the conference room."

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Burke. Brian is..." She shook her head. "I'll let my parents explain." Without asking she just went to her brother, put her arm over his and pulled him in the direction of the conference room.

Peter observed her closely, not that he had anything against moving guests as fast as possible into that one room, but the young lady was bossy. He shot a look at Neal: almost as bossy as Neal sometimes. If he didn't have proof in his hand that he wasn't a Mayfield he would be seriously reconsidering his knowledge. Must be something in the genes, those that did give a match.

"What's with the coffee stains?" Peter asked.

"It seems that the Federal Plaza is as liable as any other part of the city to have crazy people shooting guns." He shrugged. "I'm okay," he added quickly.

"Shooting? In the Federal Plaza? What happened?" He steered Neal towards the office coffee machine; it might be bad, but would be better than no coffee at all.

"Some guy in a trench coat started shooting; I didn't even see in what direction. A minute or so later it was all done. Police and FBI all around. Really, it was nothing." His eyes darted around the office, stopping on the TV they used sometimes as an interactive board. "Oh look, and you already have his photo; see, all closed and done."

Peter's head moved slightly to catch the picture on the screen and frowned. "That's Tommasi! He ran before they could arrest him. He was downstairs? Cruz!" He called louder, then again faced Neal. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"What? I never saw Tommasi; you kept me away from his file, remember? I was supposed to walk away, far, far away."

"Yeah, Boss?" Lauren interrupted.

"Go downstairs. I want to know everything about the shooting, and tell Jones to contact NYPD about the APB we put out." Peter's orders were quick.

"What shooting?" she asked, surprised. The answer was a stern look from Peter. "Already on my way..."

"Now what?" Neal asked.

"Now we go talk to the Mayfield family."

"Peter, there is one more thing." Neal stopped Peter on the first step. "When the shooting started I think Brian was screaming, 'No' ... I think I found some connection yesterday, but with all that happened I didn't show it to you..." He trailed off.

"You mean Anthony being the witness to Detlef's murder? I found your notes, good work. You think that maybe you got it all wrong. What if that wasn't Tony, what if that was Brian?"

Neal nodded, relieved they had the same idea.

"Let's talk to Brian then."

* * *

 

The Mayfields were surprisingly composed when Peter, with Neal, finally entered the room. Bianca was clasping her hands nervously, but otherwise looked quite calm. Victoria and Ed looked better than when Peter left them; they even smiled slightly at the sight of Neal, who in return gave them one of his calming, but still brilliant smiles.

"Mrs. and Mr. Mayfield, once again I'm very sorry you were called here..."

"Victoria and Ed, Agent Burke." Victoria interrupted.

"Peter. And as I was saying, I'm also sorry you called your children. Nevertheless I think we have some leads that maybe will help to explain Anthony's disappearance," he finished.

They looked at him with new light in their eyes; seems the trip wouldn't be waste of time.

Neal kept an eye on Brian; the other man didn't even stir, his eyes directed across the table into the New York skyline. He moved to stand closer to the middle of the table and to see his reactions better.

"Brian, we would like to ask you some questions." Neal started. Brian didn't react. Peter took a picture of Tommasi out of a folder in his hand and put it before Brian on the table.

"Have you ever seen this man?" Peter tried.

No reaction.

Peter shot a questioning look in Ed's direction, while Neal asked directly, "what's with him?"

"Brian ... Brian changed a lot after you … after Tony disappeared. He started to have problems sleeping, every night waking up screaming, murmuring about gray eyes coming for him. But he refused to tell us more of what the dreams were about, why was he so terrified. He started to behave strangely only a few weeks later; every time he saw the left side of his face in the mirror he would refer to his reflection as Tony. We didn't know what to do, the therapy sessions with a psychologist did nothing, maybe even made things worse. A few months later ... Brian was diagnosed with schizophrenia; we had to commit him to a mental hospital, for his and our sake. We wouldn't have done this but he started to be violent towards himself and Bianca." He took a deep breath before continuing, "he more often will not react to anything, sometimes you just have to wait to get your answers. Sometimes you never get them."

Brian sat at the end of the table, not really acknowledging anyone or anything, his mind far away, as it had been since his brother disappeared. He raised his head; the window reflected his profile. His eyes darted between the reflection and Neal.

"I'm sorry, Tony," he whispered. All stilled, looking at him, surprised. His eyes concentrated on Neal. "I'm sorry you fell."

"Tony fell?" was the surprised exclamation from Bianca.

"Brian, honey, where did Tony fall?" Victoria tried to coax the answer out of her son.


	9. Chapter 9

They were not advancing in the talks with the Mayfields: Brian was again absent, closed off somewhere in his mind, his parents and sister not really able to help. They decided to continue as soon as any of them had any news.

When the Mayfields were leaving, Victoria took Neal's arm and pulled him away from the rest. They talked quietly for a minute or two, and Neal gave her a warm goodbye hug. She kissed his cheek with tears in her eyes. "Goodbye, Neal..." she whispered.

Peter and Neal stood side by side observing the Mayfields leaving.

Neal shifted from foot to foot. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now we go back to tracking mobsters and finding missing paintings."

"What about finding Tony?"

"You heard Ed: Brian may or may not say something else; he'll be home for three more days, they'll call us if something comes up. Besides, it's time to give the case back to Missing Persons Division."

"Even if they mightily screwed up?" Neal's eyes danced with humor when he recalled Peter's earlier words.

"Even then. You're not him, the family is informed, we are at a dead end, so the case is out of our hands. Again." Peter took a sip of his cold coffee and winced; he needed fresh coffee.

**  
**

* * *

 

Most FBI cases are solved in the same manner any other criminal case is. Not with lots of chasing the suspects around or on long and hopefully interesting stake-outs. Most of the cases are solved through the nightmare of every sane person - paperwork. Bureaucracy has its own set of rules that need to be followed, producing incredible amount of completely-useless paperwork - for you.

For the FBI your despised stacks of paper are a gold-mine of information, from the address of your favorite tailor - as if they don't have it already after years of surveillance - to the secret, coded books that you keep to run the underground business. Of course you could do without it and have no issue with evidence later, but the thing is, most people, even criminals, have the need for keeping paper instilled in them from a very young age. The school report cards, the various permission slips, even homework: it's all a way to get you used to creating a paper trail - as Mozzie would explain to you, as he's burning the check for your lunch. Mozzie was paranoid like that, but Neal had to admit - looking at the growing stack of government-issued boxes of papers seized from Tommasi's business and home - it was good theory. He silently swore to himself he'd take a look at his own growing paper stack.

The paper was good, but the little things - like a custom-made gun, a unique Mateba 6 Unica revolver with an ivory-encrusted handle, or a box of cigars on your desk was even better. The details that a con man used to gain the trust of a mark, or to crack what made them think, or to simply get their computer password. All of these little things told the story, and the gun told one by itself.

"Son-of-a... " was Ruiz's quiet exclamation. They'd spent the last two hours going over mountains of papers and waiting for lab results for the gun. As they found a receipt - and really, who holds onto a receipt for a 20-year-old gun, was Neal's internal comment - most of Organized Crime kept their fingers crossed on the ballistics. If that gave results for any, any cold case in their archives, the evidence would be unassailable and they could put Tommasi away for something more than tax evasion.

Seemed only Peter and Neal heard Ruiz; they looked at each other then back at the agent.

"What ya got, Ruiz?" Peter asked; Caffrey was still not Ruiz's favorite person.

The answer surprised them both. "Caffrey, you're the expert. Take a look at those." He handed Neal two documents.

"What did you see?" Neal was civil.

"Take a look at the signatures. Especially Tommasi's." He then moved other papers around and handled Neal another document.

The con man did as asked and quietly studied the received documentation - his eyes widened with surprise, and a smile broke on his face. "It's forged! Nice catch, Agent Ruiz!"

"What's forged?" Peter wasn't far behind.

Neal gave a little shrug and took a quick look at Ruiz, lifting the papers a little - as in asking 'will you do the honors?'. Ruiz snapped the documents out of his hands with an irritated growl.

"The signature on this invoice, it's not Tommasi's. Seems your guy from the gallery did a number on a mobster; you have to admit the guy had balls..."

"Oh, yeah, you have no idea," Jones interrupted; another FBI folder hit the table. "Just got back lab results..." That statement brought all the room's attention to their small circle. Jones quickly added, "Szczepanski's fingerprints."

"USCIS finally let you past the red tape?" Peter grinned; getting anything from USCIS when they needed help was never fast; mostly it was a bureaucratic nightmare.

"Better. They kindly answered they don't have prints in such old cases. But I found the old case file on the theft from the NYPD, and they took his prints for elimination; the card was still there. The lab made the comparison and the second and third sets matched his," Jones reported.

"Second and third? How come?" Neal asked, surprised.

"There were right and left hand prints; the lab marked them as separate sets in the first run."

"So that means Szczepanski conned the Mafia?" Neal's smile shone like a beacon. "You have to admit, it must have been a genius plan, the guy was still alive till a heart attack took him twenty years later. You don't con the Mafia and live to tell about it." The agents dismissed his ramblings. "Hmm, of course he never told so maybe that's why..." Neal murmured to himself.

"Okay team, let's get some of the facts together..." Peter grabbed the attention of the nearest agents.

"We have fake invoices that show the paintings in question being sold to the gallery. Then we have the insurance, and not even a month later the insurance claim and the theft. Ruiz, the invoices were in Tommasi's papers? That doesn't sound right..." he trailed off.

Ruiz started to nod but stopped when his fingers moved the paper out of the folder he was inspecting - on the label was clearly written, "Cybis theft". "Nope, seems we have mixed documentation. It was from the Cybis case."

Peter groaned, the nightmare of paperwork and new clerks! They were supposed to clean up all documents left unattended in the conference room and put them back in the correct boxes; someone was slacking.

"Dammit! Now we have to review all of the papers once again; who knows what else they put wrong and we missed in the last few days." They were in the middle of reorganization - Peter and Ruiz decided to split the cases by division and all Cybis files were supposed to be managed by White Collar people, and all Tommasi's by Organized Crime. People and boxes moved in chaos directed by the two agents to create the semi-order necessary to get everyone back to work.

Cruz marched into the chaos with another stack of papers in hand and a crypto guy in tow.

"Boss?" she lingered in the entrance taking in the chaos. Peter's handwave kept her in place till agents ended their place changes and most of the documents were removed from the table into boxes.

"What do you have?" he asked, from the corner of his eye observing the young man that followed her in talking to Ruiz.

"The footage from downstairs' shooting, you should see it." On his nod she put the disc in and clicked play. Peter poked Ruiz in the arm to get his attention to the screen; the young man he'd just talked to was directed to the agents at the table.

"The man in the trench coat was identified as Simone Tommasi, for whom we put out an APB a few hours ago," Cruz started with commentary on the footage.

"We know," was the simultaneous answer from Peter and Ruiz.

"What you probably don't know is that he spent at least five minutes in a car before the event, and he wasn't alone." That got their attention. The footage showed a Ford with three occupants, obviously in discussion; the quality wasn't the best, but you could recognize heads shaking and elaborate gestures. "What's even more interesting is that Tommasi wasn't the one that fired the shots..."

"What?" the chorus of voices interrupted her.

The footage was forwarded to the moment under discussion - a figure in a trench coat exited the car and started going towards the federal building; the two persons left in the car still seemed deep in discussion. Maybe a half minute later a second figure quickly left the car, crouched by the door and very obviously took out a gun, shouted something and fired. The muzzle flashed twice, the gun was tossed inside the car and the person ran to tackle the coat wearer down. After a brief struggle he was dragged back to the car and put in the back seat. The discussion with uniformed cops that came to investigate finished quickly and the car drove off.

"Amateurs..." Jones murmured, seeing the cops letting the car go.

"Do we have the plate?" Peter asked.

"Yup, it was a rental in the name of Margaret Walczak - an NYPD detective out of the 23rd precinct..."

"Right in the middle of Tommasi's turf..." Ruiz interrupted her.

"And partner to Detective Parker. We had the pleasure of meeting them, when we got called on the Cybis paintings," Peter finished the thought.

"If they were in the car with him and obviously letting him go free, they are dirty. But why the shooting?" The question asked by Cruz hung in the silence.

"Ahem..." was all that Ruiz answered, motioning to one of his agents to pass him another file. "The crypto guys cracked Tommasi's books. Parker and Walczak were on his payroll for the last two years, so you're right, they were dirty. Plus there's something on your gallery man." His finger moved over the copied page, down to the entry marked with orange highlighter. "Gallery debt paid - $250K - on May 7th, 1990."

Peter ran his hand over his hair, deep in thought, getting all of the facts together.

"Okay, let's do it this way..." he started quietly, before adding a little bit louder, "Ruiz..."

Before he could finish, the other agent finished for him. "My people will issue APBs for the detectives." With a flick of his hand one of the junior agents was pointed out and quickly left the room to carry out his order.

"Right. Neal, let's use your tree notes style and get the facts together..." Peter gestured to the whiteboard on the wall. Neal quickly cleaned it and put all of the facts they had till now; dashed lines and comments followed every connection. In the end they had a tree with lines crossing at a few points and three still-unanswered questions.

The agent Ruiz send to put APBs on the detectives came back with another file; he was grinning like an idiot. "Boss! Ballistics from the gun came back. They matched it to the Detlef murder, and another two in the next six months!" Neal added that info to the growing tree, replacing one of the question marks with a line between Detlef and Tommasi.

"Okay, so we know that Szczepanski forged Tommasi's signature on the invoice, got insurance claim money and used it to pay the mob off. I'll bet that he was the one that got Detlef to steal the paintings from Tommasi, who in return found Detlef, finished him off, but missed the gallery involvement. Question is how do we prove that?" Peter summarized.

"We already have proof." One of the Harvard crew agents pushed a handwritten note in his direction. The note stated quite clearly, 'pay second half to Detlef'. The young agent continued, "it's in Szczepanksi's handwriting; we compared it to the rest of the gallery papers."

"What a tangled web we've got. Question remains, where's the one painting from the collection? Do you think Tommasi got it? And what the hell is his angle in all of this?" Jones gave a summary of the last week of work in four simple sentences.

Sometimes you solve most of the case just using paperwork, sometimes you really need to catch some people. Peter groaned after looking at his watch: it was almost eight pm; Elizabeth would be expecting him for dinner in less than twenty minutes.

"Okay, let's wrap this up; without our three fugitives we won't get more answers tonight. Let's take a break and see what we can get tomorrow. Good work, people!" The conference room slowly emptied; Ruiz and his crew took their half of the boxes, Peter's Harvard crew cleaned up theirs.

Before Peter gathered together his things all agents managed to leave the office, apparently taking Neal with them, if you could believe an origami swan that made his way to his desk with a note, "Jones is playing taxi today". With a sigh he left the office, hoping that the traffic would let him be only five minutes late.

 __

* * *

The shrill ring of the phone woke him around two in the morning. His first terrified thought was 'Caffrey ran' before he woke up completely and answered the damn annoying piece of technology.

"Burke."

"Ruiz here. Sorry to wake you, but I thought you would like to know..."

"Get to the point, Ruiz, it's the middle of the night!" he spat quietly, careful to not wake El.

"Walczak, Parker and Tommasi's bodies were found by Pier 17. All three shot in Mafia execution style."

"Crap."

"Yeah... I'm taking the case out of your hair. If we find anything on your missing painting I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Ruiz. Good night."

Sometimes luck was not on their side was his last thought before falling asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Neal was just out of the shower when he heard some rustling sounds behind his apartment door; without hesitation he opened the door. June's maid Nora was bent slightly at an opening in the wall; the painting that usually hung in that place was swung open on hidden hinges.

"Good morning, Nora," he greeted her.

"Good morning, Neal," was the muffled answer, and a moment later Nora was removing a breakfast tray and going on her way.

"Please let me take that." He took the tray from her. "Where did you take it from?" he asked with a smile.

"The dumbwaiter, of course; you didn't think I was taking the stairs with this in hand every day?" She laughed, delighted that he didn't know something; he always gave the impression that he did. Waving in his direction she closed the painting and started going down the stairs.

Neal put the tray on the table and came back to inspect the dumbwaiter - the painting, as he had noticed much earlier, was a fine reproduction of Picasso. Hidden behind it was a wooden box and cables to operate it; only in more-recently-installed dumbwaiters would you find electricity. He closed the painting and started with his breakfast, his mind working over the new information.

 

* * *

The first thing Peter noticed when entering the office in the morning was Neal bent over large pages in the conference room. He put his briefcase in the office, left the coat on the hanger and went to check on his consultant.

"Morning, Neal, what ya got there?" Peter greeted.

"Morning, Peter, just some plans..." Neal responded without raising his head.

Peter bent over the papers to take a closer look; they were blueprints for two townhouses on West 81st.

"Neal, what are you planning?" he asked with suspicion in his voice.

"Planning?" was the surprised answer. He took a quick look at what Peter was looking at - his partner's eyes were firmly set on an emergency exit and the office with a safe.

"Oh, I didn't even notice that..." Neal said with hardly-contained humor in his voice.

One of Peter's brows raised.

Neal's hands raised in a surrender gesture. "Really." His hand moved to show something on the plans. Two documents were set side by side now; Peter could clearly see they were showing before and after states of the same house. "Here, look at this. I was thinking where in the vicinity could Tony have fallen that no one would have found him and there was only one option."

"The house? That's highly unlikely; they would found him there." Peter interrupted.

"The house. More exactly, the dumbwaiter." Neal's finger moved from one plan to the other. "It was hidden during renovation, and the end of the shaft is in the cellar, more precisely in the old root cellar used for food storage before fridges." The finger moved again, to show a different part of the plan. "The entrance from the normal cellar was closed, and probably because of that everyone forgot about the root cellar and the dumbwaiter."

"And how do you think the boy could fit there?" Peter was sceptical.

"Well, I can fit there without much problem." Neal's face was full of innocence.

"And where did you test that?"

"Allegedly I used this way to enter and exit some homes..." Peter just rolled his eyes; only Neal Caffrey... A sudden thought stopped him in a half smile.

"Where did you get the plans?" He didn't give him a chance to explain. "Neal, if you broke into the Depart..."

Neal's hands raised in surrender once again. "Whoa, Peter! Nothing like that; I asked Jones to bring them - the Department of Buildings office is on his way. Jeezz, really, stop with the suspicion at every step, I wouldn't do anything that would send me to prison again; got enough of it for this month."

"Only this month?" This time Peter's voice was teasing.

 

* * *

 

"Boss, we found him, and there's something you should see." The phone call from Jones was short.

Peter actually didn't expect them to find anything. Neal's theory about the dumbwaiter was a very long shot, but he'd started to slowly trust his out-of-the-box line of thinking. More often than not it gave results, and it was why he worked so hard to keep the hopefully-soon-ex-con on the straight and narrow.

Neal didn't even gloat that he was right when he told him about Jones' call, maybe because there would be a dead body involved, or as much as was left of it after 20 years. He just sat silently in the car, his eyes on the sidewalk or road. For once Peter was grateful; he got time to think.

Peter wondered silently how could you miss a body in your cellar for 20 years? Especially during those first few months? You don't need Quantico training to know what would be going on in the first few months; basic biology would be enough. But he did remember the medical examiner classes, that smell... The car proximity alarm, along with Neal's exclamation of "Look out!" got his attention on the road again. He decided while parking in front of the Mayfields' home to leave that particular part to the coroner.

The coroner's people were just finishing packing a black body bag in the back of the van when Peter steered Neal towards Jones waving them to the house entrance.

"Jones, what do you have for us?"

"You better come with me to see this."

"Where are Victoria and Ed?" Neal asked.

"With Lucero and Kendrick; it's their case to finish." Jones didn't seem to be happy with his fellow agents.

"Then what are we doing here?" Peter wasn't less curious than Neal; if not for the Mayfield case then why were they called?

"Ah, see, that's the biggest surprise," Jones started leading them to the second floor and one of the rooms; the door opened to reveal a child's room with an easel almost in the middle of it. "Do you remember what the last painting we were missing from Cybis case looked like?" He waved a hand towards the easel and the canvas someone had obviously just started painting on. Neal stepped closer to take a better look.

"Yes, and...?" Neal answered, while Peter took a look at the unfinished painting on the easel; he didn't remember, not being so much in the loop for that part of the case.

Jones made a flourish gesture and pulled a canvas from behind the easel, setting it beside the other one.

"Oh," was the first reaction, from Neal, then he bent even closer to examine the second painting.

"Is that what I think it is? Where did you find it?" Peter was more eloquent.

"That's another part of the surprise; the kid's remains were tangled in the debris of the dumbwaiter with this."

"That would mean he died with the painting in hand. This get more and more ridiculous; how would a twelve-year-old get his hands on seven hundred thousand dollars worth of painting, without anyone noticing, and then die with it?" Peter ran his hand over his face, looking at Jones like he would hold all the answers.

"Except it's not..." was Neal's 'isn't-it-obvious' statement. Jones with Peter looked at him with the same expression on their faces "It's not worth seven hundred." Neal's hand traveled between the canvases. "This one ..." He started with the unfinished one. "... is a terrible attempt at copying, really terrible, he started from the wrong spot..."

"Neal." Peter's patience today wasn't up to listening about perfect forgery technique.

Neal's hand moved to the other painting. "And of course this is a forgery, not so bad I might add, good enough to fool some people..."

"What?" was another interruption, this time from Jones. "How do you know without the expertise we needed last time?" A slight note of suspicion entered his voice.

"What's with you guys today, is it 'blame-Neal-day' again or what? I didn't forge it, Clinton. It's not my circle of interest." Seeing Jones' and Peter's unbelieving gazes he quickly added, "Chump change level! Really, in my all alleged forgery history have I ever descended to the chump change level? Besides even the original wasn't worth it." He put his best innocent expression on and observed the agents' reactions.

It took a moment; they first looked at each other, seemed to have a whole conversation composed of light head movement, a few hand gestures, and lots of "hmmm" and "mmhh" sounds with occasional brow raising, and finished with Peter's dismissive hand wave. "Okay, so how do you know it's a fake?" he asked.

"It's oil!" His answer wasn't met with the expected enthusiasm.

"Ehmm, Neal, all of the paintings from the Cybis case were oils." Jones was more than sceptical.

"No, they weren't. You asked us earlier if we remembered what the painting looked like. On the photos the colors are not so intense; I thought that was because they were low-quality. But I asked around, and the original Cybis "Landscape of Sufczyn" was actually a watercolor painting. So this for sure is a fake."

"Watercolor? The insurance papers said it was oil!"

"That's another part of the scam, use the fake to increase the possible value of the painting and get higher insurance. I need to check few things in the office to be sure, but I think he used the emerging markets con. Genius, simply genius." Neal's eyes shone brightly like a kid in a candy store; he clearly admired the scam.

Before Jones or Peter could ask for details a creak of the door got their attention. Brian Mayfield entered the room hesitantly; his gaze moved all over the room, settling finally on Neal and the painting behind him. Silence followed; no one moved, careful to not startle him. Brian's gaze was fixed on Neal, then he slid to the floor, folding his arms around his legs. Tears were falling on his cheeks; he murmured to himself.

"I'm sorry ,Tony, I never wanted this to happen, so sorry... I'm so sorry."

 _**20 years ago** _

_He crept slowly through the corridor, careful to not make any sound. He slipped through the partially-open door to his brother's room and observed him painting. Anthony was younger by only minutes, and hated when he called him his baby brother._

" _Hey, baby brother. What, are you coloring again?" he taunted._

" _Go away!" was the only response._

" _Aww, come on, leave the painting for a while, let's go play," he tried again, coming closer. He really didn't want to spend the day at home. He was little bit anxious about staying, last night's dream still vivid in his mind, or maybe it wasn't a dream?_

 _He stepped closer again this time, taking a look on what his brother was doing. On his easel were two canvasses: one with lots of blue and some yellow smears looking all finished; the other just started - some yellow spots quite similar to the other painting. He never pretended to understand art, he was a sports guy. He grabbed the_ _finished painting._

" _Where'd you get this?"_

" _Found it in the alley dumpster after the cops left. Brian, give it back." Anthony tried unsuccessfully to catch the frame. "Gimme!" He ran after his brother. "Or I tell Mom!"_

 _Brian ran; his target was the room at the end of the corridor. He was faster than Tony, but still his brother was only a step behind him. The threat got him angry; Mom and Dad always believed the favorite son. He turned over a small table and rushed into the room. Tony grabbed at his shirt; he tugged but wasn't able to stop his brother. Brian tripped over the brightly-colored rug on the floor; trying to absorb his fall he let the painting go. Anthony made a jump for the canvas. He kicked his leg, hitting with his foot the frame and Tony's hand._

" _Oww!" the other boy hissed, shaking his hand to ease the pain; he couldn't hold onto the frame any more and the painting fell to the floor._

 _Brian rolled over and lunged for the object of the fight, colliding with Tony and pushing him further aside. He grabbed the painting and rushed to the secret door they had discovered only days before. A panel in the wall opened to a small box moving between floors, just big enough for a scrawny twelve-year-old to fit; they treated it as treasure and made up stories of what it could be used for. He even traveled one level in it, cramped in the small uncomfortable space, the old wood scaring him with cracking noises. He pushed the panel aside but a moment later was tackled by Tony; the painting fell inside the dark space._

 _They wrestled on the floor, hitting various pieces of furniture; when they hit the table it rattled against the wall._

" _Boys? What are you doing?" A worried voice carried through the corridors._

 _They stilled and called at the same moment, "nothing!"_

" _Just playing with a ball." Tony added a second later; he always got in trouble for playing with the ball at home._

" _Go play in the park, before you break something," the voice answered, obviously moving away._

 _They resumed the wrestling; one of them had to win. Tony pushed Brian harder than before and the boy hit his head on a drawer knob. He lost his grip on his brother's clothes. "Ow." He stilled, hand going to the back of his head; it hurt._

 _Anthony used the moment to let go of him and crawl inside the dark space to find his painting. He used his hands to navigate the darkness, his fingers finally touching the frame, when a push came from behind. He lost his balance and collapsed in the musky space, his body fully hidden inside the box; he twisted his head but all he could see was a bright space with Brian's head quickly disappearing from view. A moment later the panel slid back and he was surrounded by darkness. Something cracked above his head. His heart sped up; the crack repeated from a different direction._

" _Brian!" he called, scared. "Brian, let me out, it's not funny!" He shifted, trying to find a better position to try to crawl out. The box shifted with him; a series of louder cracks followed. "Brian!" he shouted._

 _Brian saw Tony's legs and without thinking pushed him inside; he quickly closed the panel and stared anxiously at the wall - if you didn't know what to look for, it was impossible to see the moving parts._

" _Brian!" he could hear his brother calling him to let him out. Before he could move there was a series of cracks, then one louder followed; after a second of silence a muffled crash could be heard. He scrambled on his knees, opening the panel quickly; a musky odor spilled out. He couldn't see anything in the darkness._

" _Tony?" he called hesitantly. Another crack somewhere from the darkness startled him. "Tony!" he tried again; silence was the only answer. Brian sat there for a moment, confused and scared. He quickly closed the panel and ran to the doors. He opened them, colliding with the maid, Rosa._

" _What was that?" she asked._

" _What?"_

" _That crash sound, what did you boys do?"_

" _Nothing, just playing with the ball; nothing is broken," he assured her._

" _Where's your brother?"_

 _He hesitated only for a second. "He took the ball and ran, told me to meet him in the park," he quickly supplied, hoping she would mistake him for Anthony as usual._

" _Are you going to join him? Some fresh air would do you good after all the paint fumes."_

 _He eagerly nodded. "Yes, yes, just going there."_

" _Good, have a good time." She already had her back to him. He quickly ran towards the stairs and exit, happy that he'd left the ball at the entrance._

 _His heart raced as he ran toward the park. His vision clouded, he had trouble breathing, the ball fell from his hand. A second later he tripped over a root of a tree ... and then there was only blackness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks that's almost the end - tomorrow will be Epilogue.
> 
> I started to write this story with a goal of creating a "case" fic, with a little bit of twist, and it was a first of my stories that also gone over the mark of 5K of words (amazing 20K?) - it took four months! Over writers block, beta feedback to fix plot holes and keeping to plot at all ;) (many thanks to mam711 again and again, as she put up with all of it). As a first attempt of writing a complicated story I think it's not so bad - thank you, all of you that kept reading, commenting and giving kudos.


	11. Epilogue

_**Epilogue** _

_**One Week Later...** _

The media were still buzzing with information about finding the remains of Anthony Mayfield. They'd gone from the story about his disappearance into a grand discussion about leaving kids alone at home and current statistics about kidnappings, missing children and runaways. Neal started to avoid reading the morning paper and begged Peter not to listen to news in the car.

After the initial breakdown it seemed that seeing Neal in Tony's room with the painting triggered something in Brian's mind that led to a full picture of what really happened that day. It led to a rather complicated legal situation that Peter gratefully left to Lucero and Kendrick to handle.

Neal got a standing invitation for dinner at the Mayfields for every second Saturday of the month, which he still debated silently if it was appropriate for him to use; and how to get Peter to approve some additional exceptions, as their house was slightly out of his radius.

"Are you going to accept their invitation?" Peter asked, his tone wary.

"Why not?"

"Wouldn't that be a little bit ... I don't know ... uncomfortable for them and you? Joining their family dinner?"

Neal contemplated for a moment what to say to make Peter understand. He actually wanted to go at least once; yes, he had doubts, at least a few of them. Would they really look at him as himself and not as their dead son? Would they imagine, as he sometimes did, that the past never happened and they lived happily ever after?

"It could be ..." he admitted slowly, "... but I always wanted to see how it is to be part of a family, without playing some kind of con."

Peter regarded him slowly; Neal didn't have the con-man mask, and by his own free will he was again giving him some tidbits about his past.

"What about your family?" he gently prodded.

Neal's gaze wandered behind Peter's back, his thoughts somewhere in his memories.

"With Mom working mostly night shift we usually only had breakfast together, the two of us ... our small family." He broke off in silence; Peter sat still, listening, afraid that if anything moved Neal would clamp his mouth shut faster than he would be able to say "sorry". So he waited, silently.

"Then Conrad showed up ... and with his erratic schedule and Mom taking more and more work, and me ..." He looked at Peter. "... me trying for a career..." His mouth quirked in a sarcastic grin. "There was no time for family." His gaze moved again, this time clouded. "For a moment, when Lily was born, I was hoping..." He fell silent again, thinking. "Obviously it wasn't meant to be. I left and there was no family for me anymore..." He looked like he wanted to add something more, but shook his head. He then visibly composed himself, slipping the 'everything-is-great' mask on again, and looked at Peter with a smile.

"Would you and Elizabeth like to join me this Saturday for dinner at the Mayfields? They told me to invite anyone I like."

Peter was still silent, filing everything he just heard for later. Neal always told you only what you wanted to hear; even if he slipped, it was deliberate.

"I'll ask El if she's free." To ease the sudden tension he added playfully, "just remember, no conning!"

Neal smiled but his voice was serious. "They're willing to give me for free that one thing I could con them into."

"And that is?"

"Feeling like I really belong in the family. Like you and El do."

 _**THE END** _


End file.
